


Waiting For The Boy Who Doesn't Come Home

by Still_beating_heart



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Claudia still dies, M/M, Post-Hale Fire (Teen Wolf), Sheriff Stilinski's alcoholism mentioned, Wolf Derek, puppy derek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-02-23 10:34:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23710129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Still_beating_heart/pseuds/Still_beating_heart
Summary: This got more depressing than I intended.  So the character death is the wolf (he dies of old age)...  or is it?  Maybe he was Derek all along.  But I'm still checking the major character death box because you'll have to use your own conclusions on that one.  And also because Claudia is still dead but she has a line or two before she dies, so she still counts as far as I'm concerned.I swear it has a happy ending.  But don't expect fluff.  That's not my thing.------------Stiles was seven when Dad brought the puppy home.  Cold, wet, and tucked under his Sheriff’s jacket.“Found him outside the Hale house.  House was a total loss,” he heard him telling Mom, “all occupants were,” trailing off into silence.Mom had sighed.  Heavy and tired like she always seemed to be then.  From his perch on the stairs long after he was supposed to be asleep, Stiles heard her say, “you’ll bring him to the shelter before Mischief wakes in the morning.”------------
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 24
Kudos: 199





	Waiting For The Boy Who Doesn't Come Home

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Español available: [Esperando por ti](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24480457) by [Ayann](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ayann/pseuds/Ayann)



> I'm still under the impression that everything that can be done in this fandom has already been done, but this is not one I've come across yet (I'm working my way very slowly through some works and it would take a decade to get through all of them) but even if it is one that's been done before then it's a different writer this time... Me (who is kind of an asshole). But pretty much always writes happy endings. 
> 
> So yes, the Hale fire happened. Yes, Claudia still dies. Yes, Sheriff has a drinking problem that is mentioned but we nip it in the bud. 
> 
> Proceed with caution and if I see you on the other side then feel free to say hi :) Only positivity is accepted!

Waiting For The Boy Who Doesn’t Come Home

Stiles was seven when Dad brought the puppy home. Cold, wet, and tucked under his Sheriff’s jacket.

“Found him outside the Hale house. House was a total loss,” he heard him telling Mom, “all occupants were,” trailing off into silence.

Mom had sighed. Heavy and tired like she always seemed to be then. From his perch on the stairs long after he was supposed to be asleep, Stiles heard her say, “you’ll bring him to the shelter before Mischief wakes in the morning.”

Dad had replied, something too quiet for Stiles to hear.

Then Mom told him, “we just don’t have the money to care for a dog. Our son is too young to train him by himself. And I don’t,” her voice disappeared then and Stiles stopped himself from craning his neck around the corner to see the dog in question. Instead resigning himself to always having one friend and one friend only. 

But that night, when the darkness was creeping around the corners of his room, twisting into shadows that resembled monsters from fairy tales, the sheet pulled up to his nose, eyes darting around the room; the door brushed open. He held his breath, waiting for the creature to reach out from beneath his bed to latch onto his ankle, dragging him to a vicious death, instead it was a little black puppy with brownish green eyes that appeared at the edge of his mattress. 

“Hi little guy,” his voice a tinny whisper, pinched with fear of shadows in an overactive imagination. Extending his hand out from beneath the sheet, offering it for a sniff, a giggle parting his lips when the puppy’s cold wet nose nudged so hard and determined against his palm that his hand landed easily on his head, sliding soft, damp fur though his fingers. The puppy nuzzled into him, clamoring over the rumpled comforter, settling under Stiles’ chin. He smelled like fire, damp woodsmoke and dirt. He was shivering and looking at Stiles with so much earnest trust in his little eyes. 

——————

The shelter was closed the next day. Or maybe that was a convenient story that Dad told Mom to keep the puppy for one more day, knowing they’d both fall in love with him if he stayed, and maybe by then knowing Stiles would need him soon. 

On the second night, the smell of smoke still lingering in his downy coat, he tucked himself in against Stiles’ jaw, right on his pillow. He snuffled into Stiles’ ear like he was trying to tell him something, until Stiles dissolved into a giggle fit from the tickles and the puppy started licking the shell of his ear. 

With the puppy breathing softly against his face it was the first time he’d slept through the night, nightmare-free and shadow-monster-free, for maybe his entire life. He only slightly registered being watched when his mom pushed the door open to check on him in the late morning. The puppy stirred slightly, adjusted himself into a more protective stance and waited for the intruder to exit before he settled back in. 

——————

Even after a bath with plenty of hand-licking and jumping against Stiles’ chest with wet paws, he still smelled faintly of smoke for weeks after.

——————

“You might as well name him,” Dad was tugging one end of an old sock, the dog tugging the other.

“You only name a dog when you get to keep it,” looking a little skeptically across the ruffled black fur from his perch on the floor. Mini-chess game in front of him, he might not have any friends to play chess with, but the computer is a pretty good opponent. 

Dad stayed silent for a long time, watching the dog’s eyes until he jerked hard enough back that he had to let go of the sock. The dog, clearly having his mission in mind already, tucked himself into Stiles’ side, resting his head on his thigh, “might as well name him then,” with a smile and a pat to Stiles’ shoulder when he got up to head towards the kitchen.

——————

“What do you want your name to be, huh?” lying on his belly, middle of the bedroom floor, scratching at the puppy’s chin. 

He disappeared into the closet then, grunting as he pulled out a pair of Stiles’ old tennis shoes to chew on, “hey, I don’t think so buddy, that’s not yours,” fingers sliding over his head, small enough still to scratch both ears with one hand.

He groaned, stuffed his face in the shoe, “you’re probably gonna be a big guy, so we need a tough big guy name.”

Snuffling around inside the shoe, his tail hitting the floor behind him when he pulled his head back out of the shoe and produced the black king from the chess set, “what was that doing in my shoe? Give it here,” holding his hand out, palm up. Instead of giving it up, the puppy, as puppies do, gave him a mischievous eye and took off running. 

“Maybe I’ll name you Elvis,” Stiles threatened after him, chasing him down the stairs, “you know, the king of rock’n’roll? Or was he the king of pop? No, Micheal Jackson was the king of pop.”

“Or Benny Goodman, the king of swing,” his dad had added when the puppy went skidding across the living room floor. Promptly stopping at his feet and coughing up the chess piece, “the king, huh?” Dad’s hands slid over the piece, covered in slobber as the little guy looked on expectantly.

Stiles watched them having a stare-off for as long as he could stand it, before interrupting with, “I only remember Cora. What was the rest of the Hale family like?”

Dad sighed, staring at the puppy’s eyes while he thought for a long time. Way too long of a time for Stiles’ comfort, rocking back on his heels, waiting patiently, very patiently. With minimal fidgeting, “the Hale family has a rich history,” was all Dad decided was necessary, before looking his way, “was Cora your age?”

He shrugged, “a year younger. Her brother…”

“Derek,” the Sheriff provided and the dog jumped at his knees. Nudging into his hands until he stroked over his back, “the brother you’re thinking of was Derek,” and the puppy whined, cocked his head to the side.

“I think he likes that name,” Stiles tried it out for himself, “Derek,” the puppy rolled off the Sheriff’s shins to trip his way over to Stiles, “Derek,” trying it again as his front paws started scrabbling at his legs.

“I suppose it’s fitting,” Dad agreed.

“Because you found him at the Hale house, right?”

“And,” he had shrugged then, his eyes meeting his son’s, dropping to the puppy, “they bear a strange resemblance,” shaking his head to himself as though he was having a hard time believing what he said, distracting himself by snagging the newspaper off his side table. 

——————

“Derek?” the vet wondered, his gentle fingers lifting the tag off the puppy’s collar, discerning eyes not leaving the dog’s face for even a moment. 

“Mm hm,” Stiles retorted quickly, feeling as though the vet was looking right through him and his dog to see how their insides worked without having to get any x-rays at all. Deaton was the name on the door. His clinic had been there for decades by then, but Stiles had never had a reason to come inside. When those eyes jumped to his face, he took a step behind his dad, glimpsing a smile on the man’s face before the only thing he could see was Dad’s tan uniform shirt. 

“Well, son, I believe your dog is not a dog at all but a wolf.”

“A wolf!” peering out from behind the brick wall of his father’s back to make sure the vet wasn’t joking around, “A wolf?! Does that mean I can’t keep him?!” terrible panic tears began to rise immediately and Derek was scrabbling to get off the exam table before the salty liquid could blur him from sight, “I can’t keep him?! It’s not fair!” 

As Derek tried his hardest to climb Stiles’ legs he heard Dad and Deaton blearily discussing the permits required and the expertise that would be needed to train such an animal. How the wolf had already created a bond with the boy and they’d do a gene test to see if he was a wolf dog hybrid or pure wolf before they could apply for an exotic animal permit. These words were swirling around in Stiles’ head but not fully sinking in through the fog of panic and sudden extreme loss at the thought of no longer having the nightmare chaser in his bed at night. No longer having his best friend to play chess with. Not having the softness and warmth of him whenever Stiles’ guts were wound up with anxiety and a need to move. 

The tears and panic only subsided once closed in Mom’s Jeep in the clinic’s parking lot. With Derek on his lap and Dad’s eye meeting his in the rearview mirror, promising, “we’ll figure it out kid.”

——————

Derek started howling at night. Little bitty awooo’s that no one but Stiles could hear. He’d tilt his head back, sitting in the middle of the bedroom and his entire body would move with the effort of the tiny howl. Then he’d roll onto his side, appearing to be laughing when Stiles would tease him with, “that’s all you got big guy?”

It wasn’t until he was six months old that he showed his real howl. Big and throaty as Stiles chased him through the Preserve one evening. Stopping the boy in his tracks as the low mournful sound shook through his body, layering the forest with echoes, trailing through the empty shell of the house where the Sheriff had found him.

Stiles had watched as he carefully tracked his way up the remaining stairs. The smell of fire still lingering distinctly in the air around the structure. Derek padded up the porch steps, pushed the door open, sat down in the empty archway, tilted his head back and howled again. A lonesome sound in the dimming light.

He had waited in what was the front yard, watching Derek’s body, the way his fur rustled with every movement, with the gentle breeze wafting through the woods. The ripple of pain coursing through his body when he howled once more. This time more final, with a note of lightness, belonging, at the end as his head tilted far enough to make eye contact with Stiles. 

He stood there and watched as Derek made his graceful way down the steps, stopping once at the bottom to look back at the house. Just once. Then sat in front of Stiles, waiting for the boy to drop to his knees and wrap his arms around the wolf’s neck.

——————

Deaton had emphasized that wolves need exercise, they can’t be cooped up. Which to Stiles seemed like common sense in dog owning, but he took the vet’s words seriously. Running Derek through the Preserve immediately following school every day and then again before bed.

During the school days he’d sit with Mom in the house or on the porch when the sun was weak, not too bright for her sensitive eyes. He’d herd her back home when she wandered. Her memory getting worse. Her sense of direction non-existent. 

He had a purpose. Derek did. To care for the family. His pack. 

——————

The day his mom died. 

By then everyone in town knew the Sheriff’s kid and his black dog, who was probably not a dog at all but a wolf, were a package deal. When he ran through the hospital hallways after listening to her heart monitor beep for the final time, it was Derek who waited at the front door, it was Derek whose comfort he sought. It was Derek that he ran off into the woods with, seeking shelter in the shell of the Hale house as the rain pelted the land around them but unable to wash the tears away. It was Derek who coiled himself around Stiles, protecting him from the elements as he trembled with fear. Fear of knowing. Knowing that thing would never be the same.

It was Derek who howled until the Sheriff found them, not leaving the boy’s side through it all. 

It was Derek who stood beside him at the memorial service. 

It was Derek who was shut in his room with him as his dad drank until he passed out in his recliner. And it was Derek who would walk the stairs with him, listening for every creek beneath their feet when they’d sneak out at night to run in the Preserve. 

It was Derek who was too big to fit in his bed anymore but Stiles wouldn’t let him sleep on the floor. Always seeking the pattern of his breath and the warmth of his body near him. Keeping the nightmares at bay. The wolf-dog and his overcrowded bed were the reason he ended up with a bigger mattress. 

It was Derek that didn’t have anything to do anymore during the days. Now that Mom was dead. And he had no one to watch over. So he’d end up outside the school most days. It didn’t take long before other kids were teasing Stiles about it. Because he was such a loser, the kind of kid that no one could stand being around with all his tapping and wandering mind and snarky comebacks, that he couldn’t make friends with anyone, the only thing that could stand being around him was a dog. 

So when the principal called to tell the Sheriff that the dog was a distraction, then it was Derek that ended up chained in the yard. Chained with proper shade, water, and food of course. And chained with all the space of the yard to roam even if the yard wasn’t big enough there was only so much they could do since he could easily jump the fence and wander to the school whenever he wanted. And it was Derek that didn’t take long to break the chain, jump the fence, and end up at the school again.

So he became an honorary deputy. An honorary deputy who growled and barked and got all frothy at the mouth whenever the Sheriff pulled into the liquor store parking lot. 

———————

********************

Stiles is pretty sure Derek can understand every word he’s ever said to him. So sitting here now, with his furry, giant head in his hands, scratching his chin and nuzzling his forehead against the fur he’s soothed himself to sleep against for a decade now; he’s trying to explain way too hard that he’ll be back. It’s just college, plenty of kids go to college and they come back for Thanksgiving break and it’s the same at home even when they’re gone and everything will be fine. His dad will be fine without him to flutter around making sure he’s eating healthy and he’s got back-up when he enters a hostile situation and he’s going to bed at night without pouring himself a second drink. Stiles doesn’t need to do that anyway because he’s got Derek for that. He’s got Derek who has speckles of grey in his muzzle now and old wise dog eyes that are staring way too hard at Stiles’ face like he’s trying to memorize him. Memorize him because he’s having such a hard time believing him when he says for the hundredth time, “it’s just college buddy, I’ll be back before you know it,” and he lets the tear roll off his cheek and land in Derek’s fur. 

By the time Thanksgiving rolls around he’s homesick and lonesome, but at least college kids are a little more accepting of nerds like him. As long as he avoids the idiots who pledge frats, he’s fine. He even made it as a walk-on to the school’s cross country team, so that’s pretty cool. He’s redshirted but it’s something anyway. All thanks to chasing Derek around in the Preserve all those years. 

By the time Thanksgiving rolls around he’s ready to go home. He’s ready to see his dad and hear his voice. He’s ready to sleep in his own bed. And he’s especially ready to run his hands through Derek’s fur, lean forehead to forehead and tell him all the things he can’t tell humans. He’s ready to tell him about how he still misses his mom, and when his roommate gets care packages with home-baked cookies in it, it makes his chest ache with something so fierce, but he can’t tell anyone that. He’s ready to tell Derek about how he has to make a nest of pillows for himself to be able to sleep at night, and it’s still not a replacement for the warmth and comfort of his giant wolf. And he’s ready to bury his nose in the ruff around his neck and just stay there. Breathing in the calm that can only be provided by a soft friend who never judges, is always happy to see Stiles even when he’s not happy to see himself, and simply by existing has saved Stiles’ life in more ways than he could ever verbalize. 

Dad sent him a video the other day of Derek pacing back and forth in front of Stiles’ usual parking spot in front of the garage. He said he’s been doing it every single day at the end of the school day since he left. Just waiting. Eventually sitting and listening for the Jeep. And it never comes. And damn it, he wishes Dad had never told him that because now he feels fucking terrible that Derek is waiting every single day for the boy who never comes home. 

But it’s over, it’s over now and he’s coming home. And Derek is pacing back and forth when he turns the corner and his ears perk at the sound of the engine and he’s jumping on the door as soon as the Jeep is in park and he’s licking all over every single inch of skin he can find, and he’s so excited to see Stiles that he knocked him right off his feet and onto his butt. Attacking him with kisses and doggy breath and exactly the kind of love that can only be given by a dog. 

He doesn’t want to leave again when Thanksgiving is over. He wants to pack Derek up in the Jeep and take him along. He wants to stay home and take only online courses. He wants to come home every single weekend.

By Christmas and whole month at home with the things he loves, and the people he loves and the presence of home; it takes more willpower than he thought himself capable of to get back in the Jeep and head back to campus. And he knows that Derek is still pacing every day. Every day back and forth, back and forth, waiting for him to come home. And he’s getting more grey hair every time Stiles sees him. He finally talked his dad into video chatting with him just so he could see Derek and it hurts by the time he’s a sophomore and Derek is having a hard time getting around, hips sore and stiff but he still paces and waits. And he’s got that off gait of a dog who’s body is near the end but his smile is still steady and his tail is still wagging even when it looks like his back legs will give out on him with every wag. 

By the time he comes home for Summer break, he’s not the wolf that runs through the Preserve anymore, but he still smiles and he still waits. And he still drags himself onto Stiles’ bed every night even when he needs help to do it. And in the morning he cracks and his bones creak and Stiles watches with his heart clamped in his chest as he gingerly sets foot on the ground and his legs barely support his weight.

And it’s time to have the talk. The talk about quality of life and he knows it’s time. But he can’t do it. He can’t hear the words coming out of Dad’s mouth and he can’t hear the words coming out of Deaton’s mouth and he can’t even hear the words coming out of his own mouth. They’re blurred by tears and forced out like every single one hurts because it does. They decide he’s okay, if he’s still smiling and he’s still wagging his tail and he’s still happy. Then he’s okay. He’s okay because he’s in a home where everyone loves him and everyone takes care of him and if they have to they can carry him because he’s carried them so many times. And Stiles sleeps on the floor next to the couch because he can’t bear the thought of Derek climbing into his bed when it causes him pain. And he can’t bear the thought of him climbing the stairs, missing a step and falling down to break a hip. 

His vision isn’t what it used to be by the time Stiles comes home for Christmas break his junior year and when he pulls in, when he’s lying on the cement apron waiting. Still waiting. Dad dragged a bed out there for him to lie on, and he’s waiting right next to the oil spot that’s still there from Thanksgiving break. His vision is getting bad and his reflexes are getting bad but he still has the energy to get up, to get up and sniff and lick and nudge at Stiles’ hands, and at his face when he sits on the cement with him and sobs into his neck. Feeling under his hands where his muscles have started to dwindle down to nothing, and he’s only bones under fur and skin. And he knows. He knows. This is it. This is the last hello. So he stays. He sits on the oil spot and holds Derek while he pants with the effort of loving Stiles as much as he can. 

“You don’t have to worry anymore buddy,” sliding a hand over his head, whispering against his neck, “I’m okay. I’m okay now. I know I’ll never have a friend like you again, you’re the best I could ever hope for, but it’s okay buddy, it’s okay to let go. Just let go knowing that I love you. And I’ll miss you. And maybe you can see my mom soon. Maybe when I get there, you’ll have my dad too,” it breaks off into a sob, muffled into fur, “thank you big guy, I wouldn’t be here without you.”

——————

Dad’s big hand is on his shoulder as they walk through the Preserve. Ashes in a box. A collar jingling in his pocket. Tears that won’t stop and won’t make noise. Eyes burning, throat tight with all the things he can’t find the words for. He’ll find them someday. He will and he’ll always remember the way Derek’s fur felt beneath his hands and he’ll always remember how easy it was to reach for him and know he’d be there. He’ll have to find something to do with his hands now. And his thoughts. He’ll have to take up journaling or something awful to keep his mind straight, and he’s pretty sure Derek would have chewed the pages out and given him a glare if he’d ever tried that in front of him. He feels himself smiling at the thought, not a real smile, but the kind that comes when the tears stop for a brief moment of holding a memory close to the heart and never letting it go. 

He’s not sure if he’ll ever be able to pull into the driveway again without expecting Derek to tackle him as soon as he gets out. He’s not sure he’ll ever be able to sleep in his bed again without reaching for something to put his arms around, without having something to bury his face in. He’s not sure he’ll ever be able to go for a run again without expecting to hear his four paws hitting the dirt around him. He’s not sure he’ll ever be able to eat a meal without tossing a scrap of food into his dish. And he’s not sure he’ll ever be able to hear the sound of a collar jangling again without his heart lurching and his knees trembling. 

There are still soft downy feathers of fur stuck to Stiles’ sweatshirt when he kneels in the dirt in front of the burned out house, “is this the spot?”

“Yep,” Dad swallows hard, trying to keep himself strong for his son’s benefit but he knows by the red eyes that he’s been crying just as much as Stiles has. 

They dig in silence, shoulders bumping one another from time to time. Maybe on purpose. 

It looks so small. The box looks so small when he lays it in the hole. Whispering to the ashes, “I love you buddy,” hand sliding over it as though it’s his ears beneath his fingers. 

Dad follows his lead, “miss you buddy,” admitting with a shaking hand sliding over the seam of the box, tucking it tight again just to be sure.

The collar jangles when he removes it from his pocket. Standing over the open grave, sliding his thumb over the engraved name. A tear looses itself from his eye, trailing over his cheek and dripping off his lip onto the dirt at his feet, “I can’t,” fingers fiddling with the tags, “I think I need to keep it,” voice shaking and cracking. 

His knees buckle, giving out from beneath him, butt hitting the dirt as a new round of sobs wracks his body. Dad’s beside him immediately, “take your time son, take your time,” arms wrapped around his shoulders. 

It’s different with humans. When you leave the grave site after saying your piece, after laying your flowers down and whispering your last goodbye. It’s different when it’s animals. When it’s your own hands that have to put the dirt on the grave, when you have to watch yourself pat the Earth smooth. 

He’s silently grateful when someone else does it. When his dad is still seated firmly at his side. When they can embrace each other and find that comfort right there as they watch. As they watch the dirt piled on top of the grave. 

Someone who doesn’t speak. Sprinkles a handful of seeds over the top layer of dirt and pats it down painstakingly gently. Someone who’s eyes knock the breath out of Stiles’ lungs when his own finally rise to meet the stranger’s. Stunningly green in the lame winter sunshine seeping through the trees. Soft and understanding. He nods, without saying a word, and turns to leave. 

———————

With the collar in his pocket and his heart beating in his ears he goes for a run through the Preserve on New Year’s day. It’s easy to find the grave, not only because the dirt is still untouched after the man spread those seeds and patted it down. HIs large handprints still visible in the rich Earth. But now because there’s a Celtic cross marking it. Made out of a couple sticks and woven together by grape vines. 

He runs his fingers over the collar when he halts beside the cross. Breath shaking as he scans the area for any sign of the man that was here the other day. Taking in the scene of the falling down structure, charred and gutted. But beside it now, by the foundation on the western edge is a row of crosses. Crosses similar to this handmade one marking Derek’s plot. These ones bigger, wild still but more professional looking.

Taking a deep breath and the steps towards the markings. Reading the names etched in the bark, burned and scarred wood. Eleven of them.

He’s only vaguely aware of being watched, standing beside the graves of strangers, fingering the collar in his pocket and feeling so small in the scheme of things. A loss like this, this is unimaginable. Overwhelming grief and he finds himself relieved to know there were no survivors. How impossible it would be to find happiness on any scale after this kind of tragedy. 

He’s vaguely aware of being watched but it’s no less startling when a figure appears, looming in the shade of the house structure. 

“Hi,” is the only thing that squeaks out of his mouth, his hand gripping tighter on the collar, eyes rising to meet the brilliantly green ones they landed on briefly yesterday, “so, uh, who the hell are you to choose the marker for my dog’s grave without my permission?” it doesn’t sound at all tough, it just sounds kind of weak and sad. It’s fitting, it’s exactly how Stiles has been feeling for a week now. 

He’s not expecting a smirk in response, maybe it’s the last thing he’s expecting, the words even less so, “I’m the hell who owns this property.”

“Uh,” brain thumbing quickly through every possible conversation he’s ever had with his dad about the Hale property in the Preserve, the only family to ever privately own property in the Preserve in the history of Beacon Hills; and coming up empty. There was no land transfer. There was no mention of commercial or private or even county or state or any of that stuff taking this piece of property over and Stiles’ dad would have told him if there was. He knows it. So, “huh?”

The guy is about the same height as Stiles, but much broader. He’s dark and has incredibly chiseled features. His eyes are intense and staring holes into Stiles and he recognizes that look from the one time he pissed off Cora Hale on the playground back in preschool.

“Dude,” he’s lost his intelligence, “you’re Derek Hale.”

“Last I checked.”

“I, but, I, you’re, but I thought,” clearly still not with the intelligence thing, “you’re dead.”

“No such luck,” and it’s supposed to be light and airy like a joke or something, but it’s not funny and suddenly instead of a tall, dark, handsome man he looks like a lost puppy and Stiles wants to do something about it, but all he can do is stare.

And that’s not helping. The guy’s face twitches and his gaze drops.

“Um, do you live here?”

The eyes dart up, meeting Stiles’ and narrowing.

“I mean, now, like now. Are you sleeping here in the middle of winter without a roof and…”

“It’s California.”

“I thought it was the North Pole.”

“Sarcasm hurts,” with so much sarcasm it’s positively dripping.

It makes the corner’s of Stiles’ lips curve upwards and blood rush through his body as he blurts, “I’ve got a roast in the crock pot and a double bed. My dad’s on night shift and I hate sleeping alone.”

“That makes you mildly less creepy than the guy who sleeps on a stained mattress in the shell of his childhood home and also hates sleeping alone,” there’s a hint of something that might be a smile, and his eyes twinkle. 

And that’s how you know someone’s not a serial killer.

“So, um,” fidgeting with the collar in his pocket, “where you been for the last, um, decade or so?”

“New York.”

“Oh,” rocking back on his heels, thinking he’ll offer more, or he’ll ask him maybe what his name is, or he’ll do something conversationally helpful, but no, “so why New York?”

He shrugs. And Stiles watches the flex of the tendon in his neck when he does it, “can’t get much further away and stay in the continental states.”

“You mean contiguous United States is what you mean. See continental is all the states in the continent which would also include Alaska and Hawaii but you…” his voice trails off when he receives a glare, “k, so not in the mood for corrections, I’m Stiles,” he jabs his hand into the air between them, nearly poking fingers into the guy’s stomach as he does it. Drawing back just a bit, and nearly going for the rejected-handshake-hair-slide since the guy lets it hang there for so long, or maybe not so long, only so long in Stiles’ time while his gears grind too fast and want to take flight. 

“I know,” then a big, warm, gentling hand is clasped in his and he feels all the breath leave his lungs. 

A smile rises on his face, “so, uh, how ‘bout dinner then?”

———————

There are forget-me-nots growing all over the yard of the old Hale house. Painting the hillside in light blues and whites. Decorating the handmade crosses like little promises scattered on the wind. 

\------------

Stiles has a man in his bed. A man who likes to cuddle even if he pretends he doesn’t. A man who has soft fur and he hates when Stiles calls it fur. A man who’s breathing pattern lulls him into a sound, gentle sleep every night. A man who’s body is warm and soft. A man who sometimes hides his face in Stiles’ neck, sometimes smells like woodsmoke and shivers in the night. A man who never talks about New York, even when Stiles asks him. A man who seems to know a strange amount about Stiles without him having to verbalize it.

A man who chases the shadows away and keeps the nightmares out of reach. A man who grips Stiles’ hand in his own when he reaches out, a habit he can’t break, for an ear to scratch or a chin to rub. A man who never makes him feel bad for missing something so much there are no words for it. A man who makes that missing thing seem a little more distant every day. 

A man he’s going to marry someday. All he has to do is ask.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry, I know. But you were forewarned that I'm an asshole who writes happy endings. 
> 
> Thanks friends! Stay safe, stay healthy, take care of yourselves :) Leave kudos and comments before you go. And if you have a dog, give it a hug from me since I no longer have my bestie.


End file.
